


flowers in the rain

by pr1nc3ssp34ch



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Car Sex, Cuties, Domestic, Drinking, Fluff, Humor, M/M, Semi-Public Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-25
Updated: 2013-10-25
Packaged: 2017-12-30 11:03:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,520
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1017827
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pr1nc3ssp34ch/pseuds/pr1nc3ssp34ch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"alphavenger: stiles and derek taking a walk in the middle of the night during the summer, warm raindrops soaking them wet and stiles kissing them off derek’s face, derek pulling him close and licking into his mouth, both of them starting to grind against each other before slipping into the jeep and fucking each other so hard neither of them can form a word for a solid 15 minutes afterwards *u*"</p><p>Goda's the worst, guys.</p>
            </blockquote>





	flowers in the rain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts).



> BLAME GODA BLAME HER DO IT

"You’re an idiot," Derek tells him as Stiles pointedly  _refuses_ to put on a rain coat. He’s already an idiot for wanting to do this in the first place (Derek’s never even heard the term ‘night walk’, is that an actual thing? He’d ask Stiles to google it, but,  _well_ ) since it’s  _pouring rain,_ but Stiles didn’t stop being stupid when they got together. Derek just started thinking it was cute. 

 

 

But he’ll never admit to that. Not ever. (Maybe when stoned.)

 

 

"C’moooooon," Stiles pleads, and Derek knows he shouldn’t have let him have that beer. Or the other beer. Or probably the one after that, damn it, he’s a pushover. Stiles is only 20, and he’s a fucking lightweight, because ‘I’m on a scholarship, what if I go out and forget an essay and they kick me out oh god???’ (actual text Derek got from Stiles once). The problem with Stiles is that he’s actually  _evil._ He knows Derek will give in eventually if he just keeps hammering him down. “Wear a coat,” he growls, and Stiles pouts. 

 

 

"I want to feel the nature, Derek."

 

 

"You’re going to get  _sick._ ”

 

 

Stiles beams, wide and open, and walks forward, steady on his feet for all that crazy talk he’s been doing. But who knows - Derek’s never really sure if Stiles is weird when drunk or just  _always weird._ "Aw," he says, making that pouty face he makes whenever he thinks Derek’s being cute, "You love me."

 

 

Derek sighs. “I will love you less if I have to spend the next five days making you soup and watching The Lion King.” Stiles stops right in front of him and puts his hands on either side of Derek’s face, grinning. “No, nope, not true.”

 

 

Then he takes Derek’s hand and pulls him into the rain.

 

 

The accurate word for this would be downpour, but Stiles seems thrilled, letting go of Derek to unlatch the gate and run out onto the sidewalk, trying to climb a streetlamp. Derek follows slowly, ready to catch him, but he only spins once then jumps off, eyes bright against the dark sky. “I’m siiiiiiiiinging in the rain, Derek! I need a top hat.”

 

 

Derek sighs. The rain is warm, it’s summer, but there’s a breeze, and he really  _doesn’t_ want Stiles to get sick (not because of the stuff he has to do, but because he always looks so miserable with his nose red covered in blankets). The jeep is right there, and he knows they’d be  _way warmer_ going on a drive, but Stiles seems pretty adamant, and he’s a stubborn fucker. Derek sighs in a put upon manner and follows him down the street.

 

 

They don’t walk long, just around the block, but Stiles looks so thrilled about everything that Derek doesn’t have the heart to complain (“Look, Mrs. Bush planted hydrangeas! I didn’t know they bloomed this time of year, they’re so pretty, can I put one in my hair? Derek, don’t look at me like that, I can be a princess if I want, I didn’t agree to marry you next year for the judgey eyebrows.”)

 

 

It is the best time of year, for the rain. It sort of feels like bath water, despite the breeze causing a chill, and when Stiles slips his fingers between Derek’s, they’re cold but not bloodless. 

 

 

They’re nearing the front door again when Stiles stops them. Derek doesn’t say anything, just raises an eyebrow, but Stiles looks incredibly focused. It’s kind of, maybe, adorable.

 

 

"You’re a super good… fiance. Fiancee?" He stretches out the ‘ehhh’. "No, fiance. Yeah. Super good at that."

 

 

Derek waits, but nothing is further explained. “Uh… thanks?”

 

 

Stiles groans. “You do - the stuff! You make your bitchy face and you huff and puff, but you’re - you’re the dude that walks with me in the rain even though we both know I’m gonna end up sick. That’s - you, you’re very good, at the thing.”

 

 

"The fiance thing?" The word tastes funny on his tongue, even after three months to get used to it.

 

 

"Yeaaaaaah," Stiles says, stepping right into his space and wrapping his arms around his neck. "That thing."

 

 

Derek rests his forehead against Stiles’, cold and wet. “You couldn’t wait to tell me that until after we got inside, to minimize the damage?”

 

 

Stiles bits his lip. “Nah. We’re gonna dance.”

 

 

Derek groans, head falling back. “Not the list again.”

 

 

"Yes, the list! It’s… very important. That we do those things. That list has been the list since I was like, seven. It’s the list."

 

 

Stiles has a list of 101 cliches he wanted to do when he fell in love. They’ve done a lot of them (most of the ones added during his teenage years were sexual, and  _that_ isn’t exactly a hardship), but there are moments like these when he remembers that Stiles started that list when he watched romantic comedies curled up on his mother’s hospital bed, and he knows he can’t say no. Not that he was putting up much of a fight to begin with. 

 

 

Rolling his eyes because he knows it’ll make Stiles laugh (spoiler alert: it works), he settles his hands on Stiles’ hips and starts a slow dance. Thunder claps somewhere distant, and the rain comes down just a little harder, enough to soak their short hair right through. Stiles is bad at this in general, and even worse due to the fact that he’s laughing, but Derek can pull his weight in the art of slow dance, and they don’t actually look that bad (if anyone is looking out their window at 1am to see them). 

 

 

"I love you," Stiles tells his neck. Derek huffs a laugh.

 

 

"Me too."

 

 

Stiles pulls away, frowning and shaking his head. “Nuh uh, cop out. C’mon. Tell me.” 

 

 

Derek sighs, taking Stiles’ hand and pulling them behind the jeep. He always feels so naked and open saying it out loud, and being somewhere all the neighbors could see the look on his face if they wanted to doesn’t exactly help that feeling. He leans back so his shirt  _really_ soaks through in the back, absorbing the water from the side of the jeep, and sets his hands on Stiles’ hips again, stroking his hipbones from where his shirt’s ridden up now that his shirt clings like a second skin.

 

 

"I love you," he says quietly, and Stiles fucking  _beams,_ like Derek is some sort of treasure, like he doesn’t have a ball of sunshine in his arms right now. Stiles licks the rain from his cheek and the next thing he knows Derek is licking warm and sure into his mouth and it’s so  _good._

 

 

He finally understands the merits of a night walk in the rain, because Stiles tastes pure and natural mixed with his natural taste, and it’s fucking  _intoxicating._ Derek’s hands slide under his shirt, catching the way wet hands do on skin (inexplicable, really; isn’t water meant to be slippery?) and dipping into the soft spaces between Stiles’ ribs, making him moan quietly and drinking in the sound. 

 

 

Derek knows they should go inside, because if there’s one thing he’s learned from almost three years with Stiles, it’s that they escalate very quickly. They’re half hidden by the jeep, but the neighbors to the right and left could still easily be watching. The lights are off, but you never know, okay?

 

 

The difference now is that while Derek might be shy about his emotions, he’s certainly not shy about sex. Stiles might be, if he wasn’t  _really_ buzzed, but Derek doubts it. He remembers rather fondly the night Derek blew him under the table at that fancy restaurant on their one year anniversary, rolling his hips up at the thought. Stiles groans, tongue rasping kittenishly across Derek’s lower lip before he sinks to his knees right there on the concrete.

 

 

"Stiles, what are you - Jesus fuck - " Derek’s voice is no more than a whisper, almost drowned out by the sounds of the rain surrounding them. He doesn’t think Stiles would care if he  _could_ understand just quite what he was saying, not with the way he blinks up at Derek like he’s got the best surprise and slips his dick from his fly and straight into his mouth without preamble.

 

 

He was only half hard before, but it doesn’t take long. At all.

 

 

It’s not his fault that he dents the jeep. Stiles does he throat thing, and he  _moans,_ and Derek will protest it being his fault to his dying day, because no one would have the strength not to pound their fist back at that. The only problem is that Derek has werewolf strength, but Stiles knew that when he started this. He’s at fault, here, really.

 

 

Stiles scrapes his teeth over Derek’s foreskin in retaliation, but it doesn’t quite have the effect intended, because Derek bites down hard on his fist to prevent a whine and rocks forward slightly, forcing Stiles to brace an arm across his hips awkwardly to prevent himself from ricocheting forwards.

 

 

It’s over pretty quickly after that. Stiles makes some stupid raining  _something_ joke that Derek refuses to dignify with a response at all, but his legs are shaky, and Stiles eventually manages to get the back seat open. (They live in a nice neighborhood, it’s habit to forget to lock the door by now).

 

 

Derek knows exactly what’s happening here - he wonders, for a moment, if this wasn’t Stiles’ plan all along. Get Derek feeling particularly sappy so he’d finally agree to car sex and cross another thing off the list, even though it’s cramped and going to get  _so annoying_ in the aftermath.

 

 

Whatever. He’s in afterglow - he doesn’t really give a shit right now. Everything looks hazy and good, and Stiles dragging his hands down Derek’s chest over his shirt feel  _amazing._ "Mm," he rumbles, and Stiles grins, straddling his waist (more putting his whole weight onto Derek’s lower torso, but he can take it) and pulling the door shut behind them.

 

 

"So pretty," Stiles comments idly, like he’s stopping to admire Mrs. Bush’s hydrangeas again. He brushes some of the hair from Derek’s forehead and follows the curves of his face down to his mouth, thumbing over his bottom lip. "The best pretty." 

 

 

Even in his post orgasm haze, Derek can’t help but laugh. “The best pretty? Really?”

 

 

Stiles sighs. “Shut up, loser, I’m trying to put it in your butt.”

 

 

"You suck at seduction. F for failure."

 

 

"Got you in my car, didn’t I?" Stiles frowns down at them, as if he’s just realized a massive mistake. "Though I have no idea how to get your jeans off in this position."

 

 

Derek sighs, some of the edge fading from his high and taking the rest with it. “Move.” Stiles complies, swinging his legs off and kneeling on the jeep floor, feet going… where? Under the front seat? Whatever, doesn’t matter. Derek lifts his hips and peels his rainwater-soaked jeans from his skin, baring himself to the cold and shuddering slightly. Stiles moans at the sight, though - and that’s the silver lining he’s waited his whole life for.

 

 

Stiles doesn’t even bother taking off his jeans, just helplessly clambers back onto Derek, lube from the backseat pocket in hand. The snick of the cap makes him sigh - it’s an instinctual reaction, based on experience that whatever comes after that sound will always be good. Almost always, anyway. _  
_

 

"The  _bestest_ pretty,” Stiles murmurs, slipping two fingers inside. They did this earlier, so it doesn’t take long to open Derek up, but Stiles likes fingering him almost as much as fucking him.

 

 

Derek knows this, and he plays into it, arching in all the right ways and whining lightly every time Stiles’ fingertips brush his prostate. Stiles is making quiet noises, like this is the hottest thing he’s ever seen even though he’s seen it a million times, and that’s nice, but there’s a point where Derek just  _needs._

 

 

"Do it," he pants, getting one hand behind his head so he can tilt it up more comfortably and glare at Stiles. "Fucking - do it already,  _god,_ " he sighs, head falling back with a quiet  _thump._ He can feel the smirk radiating from Stiles, but he doesn’t have time retaliate, because he can hear the sounds of Stiles slicking himself and then he’s sliding in, smooth and sweet and slow, and it’s exactly what Derek wanted but didn’t know he was craving.

 

 

They fucked  _hard_ earlier, they always do when Stiles comes home for break, but this… this isn’t fucking, it’s - not love making, god, that’s so cliche, but it’s  _something._ Too much emotion for one jeep, at the very least. Stiles’ thrusts are slow but  _hard,_ and Derek feels them like a brand.

_Yours. Mine. Yours._

 

 

It’s awkward, and it doesn’t always work - Stiles slips out a couple of times from the position, and eventually they have to press Derek’s legs a little closer to his chest than he feels he’s naturally flexible enough to do, but it doesn’t even matter, because he hasn’t been  _with_ Stiles in months, and all it takes is a single inhale, one brush of lips, and he’s falling head over heels all over again.

 

 

He wishes Stiles could be done with school already, because he wants to fuck him while they still taste like coffee in the morning and have time to test out the new jacuzzi without being dragged to some outing with their  _way too many friends,_ and knock the papers off Derek’s desk at the shop when it’s his turn to close because they can’t keep their hands off each other. He realizes a little belatedly he’s probably saying some of this out loud, because Stiles is moaning  _loudly,_ completely ignoring the public setting and fucking him hard enough that stars explode behind his eyelids. 

 

 

"I  _love_ you,” Derek says, lifting his heavy eyelids enough to look Stiles in the eye when he says it, because it feels suddenly urgent he  _know._ Stiles’ mouth falls open, and his thrusts turn jerky as he wraps his hand around Derek, jerking him in time with the off rhythm of his hips in spite of himself.

 

 

Stiles comes first, but only just.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

In the morning, it is, as Derek predicted, disgusting. They ended up sprawled across the backseat in post-orgasmic cuddles and managed to fall asleep that way, and now they’re sticky and gross. He ruffles Stiles’ hair until he mumbles, then gently pulls himself out from under him and hunts beneath the seats for his underwear. He figures it’s about 10am, and everyone who matters is at work - and steps out of the car to find a note under their windshield wiper.

_You could be a little quieter, you know. _

 

 

It’s not signed, but Derek’s whole face turns red, and when Stiles sees it he laughs for fifteen minutes, in four minute bouts with brief reprieve.

 

 

When he’s done, he requests the Lion King, cuddles, and chicken noodle.

 

 

Derek sighs, but it’s with a smile, this time.

**Author's Note:**

> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://beastiehales.tumblr.com).


End file.
